Birth of an Assassin, Books 1-3: Killer Plots and Powerful Characterization (Birth of an Assassin - the series)

by Rik Stone

  Pavel took a breather on a wide ledge. Jez caught up and flopped next to him. “Would it be safe to make a hollow and rest until this flurry relaxes?” he asked.

  His comrade laughed. “Nope, forget it. If we stop every time a little snow falls we’ll never get anywhere. Come on.”

  Jez’s dented spirits lifted on getting to the top and as he passed through a gorge between the mountains knuckles, he warmed to having Pavel by his side. A bit gung-ho in his attitude to life, but he could be counted on, no argument. On the other side of the mountain he got another buzz on seeing a slope as opposed to the sheer face they had just climbed.

  Pavel echoed his thoughts. “Excellent, get the snowshoes back on. We glissade.”

  Even though the powdered surface made the going slow, it was still faster than the climb up. From the base of the incline, they put in another couple of kilometers over the flat land before Jez stopped. “I have to eat,” he said, and began burrowing into the snow for shelter before taking his rations from his kitbag. “The food supply doesn’t look good. What about you?”

  “Same. We should slow down, conserve energy. No sounds of helicopters and I would bet we’ve slipped the trackers; they’ll be heading for the goldmine.”

  *

  The journey continued, sleeping by day and traveling by night. When they reached the ridge overlooking the Gulag, the sky cleared to a plethora of twinkling stars and the snow glistened in response. As Jez scoped the devastation, a sudden rush of lightheadedness hit him. A new fear came; he was chilled to the bone and his core temperature was dropping. He told Pavel, “I think lack of food is beginning to affect me. Not much we can do about that, but I need a good night’s sleep in a warm place.”

  “Good, it’s affecting you, too. I thought I was going soft. Hopefully we can get everything we need from the Gulag. The main bunker is about fifty meters beyond the camp. Fingers crossed it hasn’t been found.”

  Jez strapped his snowshoes to the backpack and clambered his way down the rocky mountain slope. Three hours later, and fatigued, he replaced the footwear and followed Pavel across the wasteland to where he assumed the bunker would be. Pavel removed his paddles and crawled forward. Jez remained several paces behind while his partner stopped and raised an arm. Jez took the Dragunov from its sheath. Pavel went on another couple of meters and held position. He loosened his chin bar and pulled the hood back. The wind blew an icy chill over the flat ground, snow whipped up, matted into the almost non-existent hair on Pavel’s head and Jez wondered how his comrade’s ears hadn’t broken off from the cold. He pulled the hood back up, looked behind him, and ran a finger under his chin as if he were cutting his throat. There were people down there. He crept back. “They’ve found the bunker. I’m guessing from what I could hear there are two of them clattering about and shouting; they could be drinking. Go to the centre of the compound and fire off a round. Hopefully, that will bring them out. Oh, when you start shooting, don’t hit me.”

  Jez tried pulling a face at him, but his teeth chattered instead. Pavel moved off, but then stopped to fiddle with something in his snowsuit. He gave Jez the thumbs up and then burrowed under the snow. Jez raised himself to a crouched position and crept to the centre of the Gulag. He would need cover in case there were more than two soldiers there and a firefight broke out, so he dug into the snow, scooping at the soft top until his hand struck firm ground. But it had shape. He wiped the snow with the side of his glove and scampered back in horror on seeing a piece of uniform on the charred remains of Michel’s second-in-command. The surprise had him skittering away like a spooked animal, but he stopped himself and waited for the unexpected shock to subside. He sighed at his reaction and dug in where he was. Hidden, he fired a shot in the air. A minute passed and he fired another then watched as the bunker door cranked open slowly. It was heavy with snow so must’ve had some kind of pulley system. Negative vibes moved off and he became absorbed by the men lifting the trapdoor and the light emitting from within. They were regulars; no way would Spetsnaz be that careless.

  A soldier stepped from the bunker, pistol ready, crouching nervously while scanning the area. He hadn’t even bothered to put on a trench coat. He had to be drunk. Pavel, with the elegance of a fairy elephant, sprung from under the snow, pulled his man to the ground and wrestled with him. A shot fired as they tumbled away from the opening and within seconds, another soldier rose up from the cavity. He fumbled with gloveless fingers and waved a Mosin-Nagant rifle about as he tried to get a shot off at Pavel. But it was Jez that fired. Blood spurted from the soldier’s throat and he fell back, legs kicking. It turned out Pavel hadn’t been wrestling; he’d already dealt with the first soldier and had used him as a shield. Now, he shoved the body away.

  Jez felt a pang of sympathy. The soldier he had shot lay shaking in the snow. He was a regular, a comrade obeying orders. His attendance was his only crime. Jez watched as he twitched, but there was nothing he could do for him other than what he did. Frightened eyes stared skyward as Jez slipped the cold steel blade of his dagger between the man’s ribs and into his heart. There was no satisfaction for Jez, but at least the man was out of his misery. Pavel had no such misgivings; he had used a snare wire to garrote and sever his man’s carotid artery. His neck still seeped blood onto the moonlit snow, thick and gummy. It was immediately apparent that there were no more soldiers in the bunker and Pavel was quite cheery as he buried the bodies under the white-top. “Let’s see what goodies we have,” he said gleefully on finishing the job.

  “Did you notice the bodies of the Gulag personnel had been bagged and taken away?” Except for the man Jez unearthed, but he didn’t mention that. “I can’t bear to think that Anna might be amongst them.”

  “Get a grip, Jez. Anna wasn’t amongst them, and neither were you. Be glad.” Pavel searched through the lockers lining the walls. “Good: blankets, food packets, hand grenades, first aid kits, and knives.” He took a swig from a flask. “And vodka.” The lockers furthest from where Pavel had begun his rummaging were narrower, taller. He opened one. “Ah, these could be lifesavers,” he said, pulling out a fresh, clean uniform. He tried it up against himself. “Too small. You try it,” he said, handing the uniform to Jez.

  “Too big,” he replied, casting it aside. Same story for the second and third, but the fourth uniform was a fit for Jez.

  “We’ll have to separate at some point, so at least one of us can travel as a soldier. That uniform belongs to Moscow Ground Forces, not Siberian, so you’ll need a story in case you’re stopped in Vorkuta,” Pavel said. “We’ll spend a night here and make our way back to the goldmine. With luck we’ll pass our trackers on the opposite side of the mountain after they’ve realized what happened.”

  Jez said nothing; he was in no frame of mind to tell him who was in charge.

  Chapter 5

  Jez battened down the hatch after using a length of fishing line to rig up a hand grenade outside the bunker and then running the wire through the hasp and fixing it to the woodwork. Should their trackers arrive unexpectedly and force the door more than a couple of centimeters wide, the explosion would give him enough warning to prepare a defense. He took blankets from the bottom of a locker next to where the uniforms hung. Pavel was already bedded down by the time he wrapped up tight and nodded off.

  It was Pavel who woke first. He gave Jez a start when he nudged him and said, “We didn’t have any of this up at the goldmine. You should have some … dried smoked beef. You need to keep your strength up. Warmth and rest isn’t enough – eat … eat.” He spoke through a food-filled mouth and Jez noticed him running a finger up and down the deep scar next to his eye.

  “God, you sound like my mamma. I will eat, just give me a minute.” He coughed then said, “How did killing those two up top affect you? I feel a bit … well, I’m not used to taking down my own.”

  “Please, Lieutenant, you think those two would have had any sentiment about killing you?”

  The words were tough,
but Jez noticed Pavel was agitated, whatever he might say; he had been rubbing at that deep scar of his ever since Jez had opened his eyes. “The scar next to your eye acts like a weather vane. You can’t stop rubbing it when you’re disturbed.”

  “I am not disturbed. I–”

  “How did you get it anyway?” Jez interrupted in a calming manner.

  Pavel raised his eyebrows and his shoulders relaxed. “I was attached to a squad that caught field duty in Algeria. We were assigned to instruct a Foreign Legion detachment on certain aspects of guerrilla warfare. A Chechen was one of those in the French ranks and it was me he chose to hate. From the forty-plus Russians in the unit, he had to choose me.

  “I was having a drink in the only bar in the fort when he came in. Initially, he went to the opposite side of the room with a couple of European legionnaires. Instead of joining in with whatever it was they were doing, he just sat staring at me – as if he’d just scraped me off his boot. Two, possibly three drinks later, he came and stood alone near to where I sat. Funny, I’d seen him doing all the Muslim stuff, you know, on his hands and knees praying, but it hadn’t stopped him popping the alcohol.

  “Anyway, he slurped his drink and then turned full face to me and said, ‘I’ve been trying to work out what you are in order to make some sort of excuse for you, but there’s no getting away from it; even for a Russian you’re just one, big, ugly bastard.’ I looked at him and … Well, what could I do?”

  “You fought with him?” Jez asked.

  “No, I just sipped my vodka and told him that wasn’t what his sister said when I fucked her.”

  Jez laughed.

  “Before I had a chance to react, he’d pulled a bayonet and smacked me – here.” Pavel fingered the crevice again.

  “And he was arrested? But how–?”

  “No, he was buried. When I fell to the floor, the stool went crashing over with me. It smashed. I grabbed the first thing I could lay my hands on, which happened to be a splintered wooden leg. I was partially blinded by blood and could barely see him coming at me. More from gut reaction than anger, I swung the leg in my fisted hand. As it turned out, the splintered end of the wood went through his eye.”

  “Ooo!” Jez said playfully. “Well, I must say, Pavel, I think you’re very handsome.”

  Both men laughed.

  “They arrested me for murder to save face with the frogs. I’d served under Petrichova way back when he was a colonel. In fact, it was he who had chosen me as a Spetsnaz candidate when I was fifteen.”

  The same as had happened to me, Jez thought.

  “Anyway, he trusted me and didn’t think it was a just decision. He faked an escape bid and I was killed in the attempt. And here I am.” He smiled and his face crinkled like dry parchment.

  *

  Later, they dug one of the dead soldiers from under the white-top. Rigor mortis had set in and the corpse had stiffened with arms open. In freezing temperatures, he could stay like that forever. And in Siberia there was every chance that would be the case. As Jez moved him, blood on the soldier’s tunic crumbled into tiny shards of crystallized plasma. What a waste; the soldier had been a good-looking man at some point, but now his eyes were bloated and veiled in what looked like icing sugar over embryonic membrane. Death isn’t kind at the best of times and it certainly wasn’t doing him any favors now. Jez pulled and pushed at the corpse to get it into the bunker, but the arms were spread too wide. “I don’t like doing this, but if I’m going to get him down there I’ll have to break the limbs.”

  Pavel shrugged as if to say, nobody said it would be easy.

  Eventually, he got his man onto the bunk and propped him up into a sitting position before covering him with blankets. “Phew! Thanks, Pavel, you were very close to being helpful there.”

  Pavel grinned.

  Jez ignored him and readied to leave, but then considered. “Hmm, we’ll rewire the grenades. Our trackers will be slowed that much more.”

  Pavel watched the ridge while Jez set the grenades. “Okay, let’s go,” he said, slipping into his snow paddles and securing them.

  “We should take a southerly route heading for Vorkuta, and if that’s obvious to us then it’ll be obvious to them. So there’s every chance someone will be waiting for us there,” Pavel said.

  “Sounds right. But if we’re to get to Moscow in a hurry, what other choice? We can only hope that Michel had left the Gulag after us. If he didn’t, we’re on our own.”

  “I’ve been thinking along the same lines. When I came out after you, he hadn’t left yet.”

  “Well, it’s something we have to find out.”

  A filtered, orange sky glowed gently in the heavens, the sun a half-risen sphere. The food packets from the bunker would be enough to get to Vorkuta. But if it wasn’t safe there and they couldn’t jump a train, the journey would turn into a trek that would last at least six weeks. If it came to that, Pavel was expert in Arctic endurance and Jez had had his share of the conditions. They would adopt primitive survival techniques and live off the land.

  Chapter 6

  The Converted Gulag, January 1972

  Jez Kord had left for the mountains with Pavel Rostislav hot on his heels, Michel had gone over details of the Turkish task with Anna Kord before she left, and now he was about to return to Moscow. But then second thoughts crept in … “I’ve already been here a couple of weeks since Jez left and my less covert duties are calling back in the capital, but my curiosity of how he is faring in the wild is … I’ll stay a little longer,” he told Captain Konev, his second-in-command.

  Michel felt particularly proud of his protégé, one of his specially picked boy soldiers who had proven unyielding and skillful. In fact, probably the best combatant he’d had under his command. But pride of thought punctured when a picture of Lieutenant Sasha Rolaninski came to mind. Confident wasn’t what he felt about her. Up to this point, Michel had always had a hand in ghosting his chosen soldiers away from the mainstream – but not this one. Her visit came about on Captain Gorbi’s recommendation: Gorbi had been his personal aide since Anna had moved to the camp permanently and Michel had never been given reason other than to trust him implicitly. He accepted his word without hesitation. However, he had begun having reservations about Rolaninski. No sooner had she arrived, she began asking questions. “Exactly what is the fortification here at the Gulag?” was the first thing out of her mouth. Why? And showing her around the compound she had wanted to see the early warning system. She more or less asked for an itinerary of the arsenal, and wanted to know about possible weaknesses, as well as showing what Michel thought an unnatural keenness to get hold of the true identities of those at the compound. He didn’t like her. There was something … untrustworthy. Of course, it was possible she was just overenthusiastic, trying to demonstrate that she could make a difference. But whatever she was up to, he wanted her out of harm’s way until he could speak with Gorbi, hopefully resolve his misgivings.

  A few days ago, he put Rolaninski on his helicopter to Vorkuta where she would get an onward flight to Leningrad and meet up with Leo, the man who would give her a new identity. It would keep her from prying until he could make a few checks. If all went as it should, he would speak with Gorbi, his worries would be satisfied and she’d be back at the camp in a week or so. When the helicopter returned to the Gulag, Michel had been relieved to see her gone. But his anxiety grew. He spoke to Konev about it.

  “There’s something about Rolaninski that is playing with my belief system. Probably nothing, but it won’t leave me alone. I have to get back to Moscow to talk with my aide.”

  “Well, you’re not exactly needed here at the minute,” Konev said. “And you should put your concerns to bed if you’re so worried.”

  “I will. On a positive note, I must admit I did get something from her.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes, the early warning system is flawed. Unlikely, but if security was breached and for some cockeyed reason warpla
nes attacked, they could come up between the peaks and over the ridge without detection.”

  “Hmm, sledge hammer and nut springs to mind,” Konev said, looking thoughtful.

  “Maybe, but I’m going to have detectors installed beyond the far end of the ridge. Better to overdo things than be ill-prepared. But before we get to that, I have to check out Rolaninski.”

  *

  The black Volga GAZ 21 picked Michel up at Kubinka and the drive to Moscow was impeded somewhat by shimmering water and the odd cornrow of slush, but other than that the trunk roads were clear and the car cruised freely from the military airport. Nonetheless, the signs of the earlier bad weather were still evident; snow was piled at each side of the blacktop and stood almost as deep as on the Siberian plain he had left. Michel sat in the back seat, eyes darting back and forth, paranoia entrenching his mind. Calm, he needed to calm himself, but the worries escalated as a new thought struck home: the car had been waiting for him at the airport as expected, but Gorbi hadn’t accompanied it. Michel tried to dismiss the cold dread that filled him. There would be a rational explanation. Why wouldn’t there be? But asking his driver of Gorbi’s whereabouts revealed nothing and he couldn’t shrug the feeling. Something was wrong.

  The sedan pulled into Dzerzhinski Square, made a half-circle around the statue of ‘Iron Felix’ and pulled up outside the expansive, yellow and gray KGB building. The soldier who chauffeured him in hurried around the vehicle to open the back door. A quick salutation and Michel hurried on by, passed through the large entrance forum, rushed upstairs and along the corridor towards Gorbi’s office. As he passed the desk of the aide who worked for Gorbi, the sergeant was up on his feet and hurrying to catch up.